Halfway to Lucky
by PseudoTime
Summary: Kind-of after Mockingjay. There's a new power struggle happening in the Capitol and your favorite rebels and victors can't ignore it. But first, the final Hunger Games is played out with Snow's granddaughter and 23 other Capitol contestants. Cinna/OC
1. The Announcement

**A/N & Disclaimer:** I do not own the Hunger Games series. The honor goes to Suzanne Collins.

Set kind-of after Mockingjay. Full cast of characters + some new ones. This means: a focus with the victors (Katniss, Peeta, Finnick - yes, he'll be back -, Beetee, Annie, Haymitch, Johanna, Enobaria), with supporting roles by other including Cinna (also back), Katniss's prep team, Plutarch...and plenty of others. New characters will include Brielle "Brie" Snow, Alamo, Xenia, Basil, and more (some will be supporting characters, others will be thrown in as major characters). This first chapter will have mostly new characters.

This fanfic will unabashedly feed off own love of many of the "minor" characters, therefore, some who have died in the actual series may reappear. I mean, you never know what the President could be able to pull off. Also, the Games will only be a portion at the beginning of this fic, because I wanted to have more plot than that. So there. Cinna/OC.

* * *

Halfway to Lucky

___Chapter 1: The Announcement_

**

* * *

**

One – my favorite dress is a blue chiffon piece that I've never worn.

Click click click.

Two – my first pet was given to me by Grandfather.

Click.

Three – three nights later, my father took it outside and shot it.

Quiet.

One – I'm never going to wear that dress, am I?

* * *

My head is foggy – it has been for weeks – months, probably; I move in and out of time. Sometimes I'll be fine for days, and sometimes an hour will go by and I'll find myself only half here.

My fingers drum lightly against a cool metal table. One, two, one, two, three, three, three…my fingers continue their rhythm unasked. I ignore the glares that sometimes sneak, sometimes blast, my direction. There are others sitting with me at the table. It passes my mind that I haven't seen many of them recently, and how was their family? And wasn't the weather outside just fine? I clamp my mouth shut, forcing myself to remember this wasn't a dinner party. The metal cuffs loosely banding our wrists to our chairs reminds me that.

Minutes pass in semi-silence, my fingers the only thing creating noise in the blank room. Even the pictures had been taken off the wall. Suddenly, a hand slams on top of mine, silencing them. The metal rings that held him close to the chair were taut - there was enough room to touch those who sat beside us, but that was it.

"Shut up, won't you?" Basil hisses. His black hair obscures his face, but I can see his purple eyes are livid. I pull my hand from under his without a response, clasping it with the other in my lap. "It's your damn fault we're sitting here right now."

"Oh, give it up, Basil. It's not like your father wasn't helping with the hovercraft bombing in the Districts," a brunette across the table from us snarls back. Who was she?

"Don't try to help the situation, Xenia." Oh, that was it.

A youngish blond boy, probably fourteen or fifteen, spoke up. "Don't take everything out on the rest of us!" My eyes flickers to him – Alamo; at fifteen, he was the youngest of us. Basil was the oldest, at twenty-four. I've known both of them all twenty-one years of my life, but I've always been more prone to like Alamo. Honestly, I've known most of those around the table my whole life, minus a few – Xenia, for example.

In my musing, I hadn't realized a host of voices had begun to snarl and snap at each other. What was happening? Bewildered, I look around. We used to have tea together, dinner, nights dancing. My fingers find the table and start furiously tapping again.

One, two –

My brow knits together. I wish I could go home, slip under the cool sheets…

One, two –

Woudn't Verity would be there? My stylist, my friend, who always took care of me…

Three, three, three –

I'm so tired.

_

* * *

_

_I sit on the couch, watching the state-run (or was it now rebel-run?) television channel replay and replay the capture of the Capitol, of Grandfather's mansion. Verity sits next to me, transfixed to the moving pictures._

_I turn my head and close my eyes when I know the bombing of the children and rescuers is about to play. Why do they have to show it? Verity makes a noise in the back of her throat and I know the video of the bodies being blown to bits is almost done. How had it come to this?_

_We're alone in my three-floor apartment. The residents that we had taken in had cleared out to find other refuge almost as soon as the bombing aired. It's been quiet, stagnate, cold since then. For days after, I woke up sweating, thinking I heard someone at my front door, come to get me. Verity did her best to calm my anxiety attacks, even weeks after my dreams had calmed, because what had I done but thrown parties and dance in the evenings? My worst crime, according to her, was wanting a pretty dress for a party here and there. And didn't all the stylists send me dresses just to see me wear them? So I didn't even have to ask for my wardrobe._

_But I know my worst crime is my name. Brielle Snow. Last living relative to President Snow._

_I turn back to the television, forcing my fingers to unclench the couch's fabric. A glance at Verity told me my internal musing had taken longer than I expected. That happens often these days._

_Click, click, click._

_I ignore the sound, knowing I've been hearing clicks now, too. I haven't told anyone – because what would happen? I can't admit me to a hospital for medication. I just work through it, and it's worked so far._

_Click. Click._

_Verity stands up, perplexed. I suddenly realize it's not in my head. My wall clocks shows eight-eleven. Evening. I know what's going to happen._

_I hear when Verity opens the door from the foyer._

_"Miss Brielle Snow?" A deep, male voice comes from around the corner. _

_A moment of silence before I hear Verity, in a very quiet voice, respond. "No, I'm just –"_

_He cuts her off. "Please bring us to her."_

_There's no movement, and I imagine Verity tries to figure out a way to say "no". But there's no way out of this one. I hear footsteps moving towards me, until Verity stands in the living room doorway, flanked by two grey-suited men. I stare at them from over the couch, the television now playing nothing but black air waves._

_"Miss Brielle Snow?" The tall, thick man to Verity's left asks again._

_When I don't answer, he continues. "We've been dispatched by President Coin to bring you to the Capitol building." The Capitol building? Is that what the mansion is now? "And your stylist is to come as well." Verity's dark skin grows pale – if that were possible - in the dim lighting and she looks at me, frightened. There's nothing to do, though, but follow the men to outside to a black vehicle they must have found at the Mansion. They don't shackle us, or tie us up, or drug us. They just open the back door of the car as if we're going out on the town, and then we're gone._

___

* * *

_

I snap awake, still at the metal table. But the voices had quieted.

I look around for the reason of this, and see her – President Coin. It's impossible to not recognize her, the way they've been playing her speeches on television.

"Good day," she begins succinctly. "We have tracked all of you to be related to those who were closest to the previous government. Within a week, there will be one – maybe – of you left alive." Silence fills the room. Some, like Alamo, show shock on their face. "You will be final tributes in the final Hunger Games."

Coin shows neither pleasure nor amusement as she speaks, just plain business. It's as if she just told us we were grounded for a week.

"But we haven't done anything," Xenia finally speaks.

"Yes, well, your families – and perhaps yourselves – are the direct reason for many deaths. And hasn't the Capitol done the same thing year after year to the Districts' tributes?" She adjusts some of her uniform before continuing. "Your fate was decided and agreed upon by the living victors. There is no room for negotiation."

My head spins. The victors agreed to this? I could understand some of them – they weren't always the most hospitable when I met them at parties. But Finnick agreed? Something clicks in my head. Finnick isn't alive. But what of the Mockingjay? Of Peeta, her lover? Didn't someone speak for us?

At least I understand why Verity was brought with me. She wasn't here now, but I'm sure there is someone explaining her job now. How upsetting – she never wanted to be a Hunger Games stylist.

"What about our mentors?" Basil asks, his voice caustic.

Coin shrugs. "We're still working on this. It seems like not many would like to lend a helping hand to the lot of you. Currently, I believe there will be approximately five mentors that all of you will share. I've been assured this will work fine, however."

Basil tries to lunge out of his chair, but the cuffs hold strong. Coin smirks a little, the emotion out of place on her face. "I expect you all will put on a good show for the Games, even though the odds most definitely won't be in your favor."

One, two, one two, three, three, three…

My fingers work overtime on the table, my mind drifting off to something calmer.

It's Coin addressing me that brings me reeling back to reality. "Oh, Miss Snow? You'll be missing the first training center day. I have a seat saved for you at your grandfather's execution. I didn't think you'd want to miss it."

Coin leaves even before the sobs begin to choke my throat. Minutes later, our guards start unlocking our cuffs – one by one – and taking us (although, they have to drag some) to our designated rooms. My guards are fairly gentle as they guide me out of my chair and down the hallway. It's good they hold on to me; I don't think I can walk, or even find my room, with the tears that blind my eyes.

When we make it to the room, I slide under the sheets of the bed, burrowing as deep as possible. I hear the lock click on the door and I close my eyes. As sleep begins to take me, dreams of my previous life, of the dancing, the food, of the Hunger Games tributes that I knew, flit before my eyes. I dream of Mags, who taught me to make clam chowder one year when she stayed an extra two days on her own accord after one of my parties. She's floating in a lake – no, the ocean, but when I get closer, she's pale and lifeless. When I'm finally standing over the body on a rock, her eyes suddenly open, hands reach out, and then I'm being held under the water until I can't breathe anymore___. _


	2. The Execution

**A/N & Disclaimer:** I do not own the Hunger Games series. The honor goes to Suzanne Collins.

What did you say? You want to know when your favorite, book characters will _actually_ be here? Okay, actually, no one asked. But if in case you were asking yourself that, expect within the next two or three chapters (I _believe _chapter four) will have a chapter focusing on them. You have to get to know the new players for some background plot first.

* * *

Halfway to Lucky

___Chapter 2: The Execution_

___

* * *

_

One – my parents died when I was thirteen.

Static.

Two – my father said the dog my grandfather gave me was a mutt.

Click. Click.

Three – my only family left is my grandfather.

Click.

One – I no longer know who killed my parents.

* * *

I awake to Verity pulling white, gauzy blinds back from the two, mid-sized windows on the far side of my room. The smell of hot drinking chocolate on my bedside table drifts to me. I stretch. With the soft sheets, the morning chocolate, Verity, the clean room...last night seems like a dark dream. I can almost believe when I open my eyes I'll be back in my apartment, and my dogs – Chancey and Odin – will be waiting for me at my bedside. But it doesn't work that way. When I open my eyes, I'm struck by the overly sterile room. They left decorations – like the vase of tulips, or the purple rug, and the paintings. But even with that, there's no friendliness to the room. There's nothing familiar – except for Verity.

I sit up, leaning against the headboard, and carefully sip the chocolate. It isn't as good as the kind I used to get back home, but at least Coin is letting me have some. A croissant sits on a white, small plate next to where the chocolate had been awaiting me. While I am debating what is more important – eating my croissant or drinking my chocolate – I can hear Verity shuffling around the room, opening chest drawers, pulling things out, going to the bathroom to run the shower's hot water…

I close my eyes and let my mind drift.

I'm startled back when Verity pulls my sheets completely from my body. I crack my eyes open, halfway glaring, only to see her standing with her hands on her hips.

"Shower," she says, pointing to the bathroom, where I can hear the water running.

I think for a second, and then exchange my mug of chocolate for the croissant. But before it can make it to my mouth, it's taken from my grasp – covering me in crumbs – deposited on the plate, and I'm being yanked from the bed. Verity's never let me get away with anything, even sleeping in, since the day she came to be my stylist four years ago. It isn't like having a mother. No, she is only a year older than me, so it is more like having a sister that thinks she is your mother. We fight like it, too, sometimes.

I grumble something under my breath that I'm glad she doesn't hear as I make my way into the bathroom. The heat of the water is already filling the room as I close the door, leaning against it for a moment. What was the point of waking for breakfast? Don't I only have days to enjoy myself? I sigh, knowing that even if I make this argument, Verity will have none of it.

I strip off my green cotton dress I had been wearing all the previous day. It falls to the ground silently and as I am stepping over it, the mirror captures my gaze. My pale skin, large, dark eyes, and strawberry blonde hair falling a bit past my shoulders reflect back to me. It's my hair that runs through my mind as I step into the water. But now it's not my hair, but my mother's – the same color, pinned back to her head as she wore a sparkling green evening dress. She's holding my hand – we're at a state dinner, I'm young, but old enough to be vain about my own dress and hair styling.

My breath is quickening; I don't want to think of any of this. My hand reaches out to the slick tiles of the shower. One, two, three, three, three…and again, again, in quick succession. My mother, how I remember her – one, two, three – the last night I had her – three, three, three, three…my fingers stick on a repetitive loop on the last digit of my voiceless mantra. I don't know how long I'm in the bathroom, but the next thing I realize the water is cool and I smell jasmine in the soap suds coming from my hair. Verity, emotionless and focused, is standing at the edge of the shower, finishing washing my hair. She turns a knob and the water shuts off and I am wrapped in a large, white, fluffy towel and led to sit in a chair next to a vanity back in the bedroom. I am grateful that Verity never misses a beat; without her, I am sure I would have already died of starvation these past weeks.

She begins gently combing through my hair, her fingers nimble and quick.

"Basil is here," she states, watching my face in a mirror for a reaction. "I saw his stylist, Coco, yesterday."

I shrug. "I know. I saw Basil yesterday. We're all here."

Verity makes a noncommittal noise. "I was afraid of that. So they told you all?"

"Probably the same time they told the stylists. Don't want a secret to get out, now would they?"

The conversation dies out as Verity begins to style my hair. She pulls hair pins from the small cup she must have brought from home, quickly wrapping tendrils of hair in curls and pinning them on my head.

I am the one that finally breaks the silence. "We were told this final Hunger Games was approved by the victors."

Verity says nothing, only stares at her working hands and my hair. I begin picking at my croissant that she had brought over some time before. Minutes pass and finally she sighs, looking at me again. Emotions finally fly over her face – sadness, confusion, pity. Finally she forces a smile. "I'm sure they all didn't vote for this, you know. It's just like how it used to be – when they said everybody in President Snow's council had agreed on something, but we knew not everybody had." Before I can answer, she continues, her voice full of business and the emotions gone. "Have they told you your schedule?"

"No. Coin just told me I would miss the first training day for Grandfather's execution." I ignore the part about the execution, since I am trying to disregard the reality of losing the rest of my family, even if I was confused on my feelings toward him. "I guess I'm surprised they're even giving us training days."

Verity follows my lead and ignores my first comment. "Yes, well, I suppose Plutarch – or whoever is running the games – doesn't want it to be too boring, now do they?"

She gives a little self-satisfied smile as she steps back from my chair. My hair is pulled back in a fairly simple fashion, with tendrils hanging loose in various sections. It reminds me of how my mother used to do her hair. Maybe that was Verity's inspiration – she surely had watched the fashions of my family over the years, even when she wasn't working for us.

I finger my hair as she moves to the bed to rearrange the clothes she had laid there while I was in the bathroom. I recognize the pieces; she must have been allowed back to the apartment to get some of my clothes. Standing up, I drape my towel on the back of my chair, and walk towards Verity where she has already taken a dress of the hangar, unzipped it, and is holding it close to the ground for me to step into. This part of a day's preparation goes quickly - before I feel like I've had a full breath, she has zipped me into my black, silk, thin-strapped day dress and guided my arms into the matching bolero top to cover my bare shoulders. Verity takes the leftover towel to the bathroom so I can sit once more at the vanity, and it's only when I'm looking at the mirror again that I realize what my outfit signals.

I sit with a very unladylike thud. I grasp the chair's arm rest, forcing my breathing to relax. When Verity returns, she pretends to not notice my distress and begins to apply the usual makeup.

"They didn't give me a lot of time to deal with his impending execution," I finally whisper, my voice beginning to sound hoarse.

"Don't you dare cry and ruin your lashes before we leave this room," she warns back.

"Sorry," I mumble, pushing back the tears before Verity can yell at me.

She finishes her job, deposits the brushes on the table, then kneels down to be able to look up at me. Her voice is softer now. "It's going to be hard, but just remember – you two haven't always seen eye to eye, okay?"

I nod, and my voice is almost nonexistent. "But, he's still family…"

"You can't think that way, because I promise – nobody else is thinking that way. All they want is blood, and it doesn't matter who they get it from. Get through today, and then we worry about getting you through the Games." There's a knock at the door and she stands up, giving me an appraising glance. Her tone changes instantly. "Plus, you look fabulous! What would you do without me?"

The door opens, and two more of the guards from the previous night walk in. We walk over to them without a word and Verity helps me put on low-heeled shoes as they clasp my hands in more silver cuffs. The chain between these is shorter than last night; I can't even adjust to scratch my upper arm.

We're led through the hallways, past others who stare and gawk, past other guards who barely care we are there, until we reach the outside. It's all set up – the stage, the chairs for some of the more notable guests, the camera crews. I balk abruptly. I don't want to be here, I don't want to see the cameras, I don't want to be filmed as I mourn another of my family being taken from me. Why can't I just go to training, like the rest? The cameras seem to be set up to tape mostly the actual execution, but I know there must be at least one that will film me, show what a monster I must be to shed tears over the horrible past ruler of Panem.

One of the guards pushes me forward, causing me to stumble as my heel clicks over a stray rock. Verity catches my arm and shoots the guard a hard look. "Just get through this, okay?" She whispers to me. I give an imperceptible nod as we're led to chairs in the front row – of course, they wouldn't want my view to be blocked by anything. The guards drop to seats on either side of Verity and myself, largely ignoring us. I spare a glance at Verity – my stylist, my friend – and she lays a hand over mine in comfort. No words can be exchanged now; who knows what tape recorder devices are laid about under the seats or near the stage.

Time passes and finally Coin – or, as I should say, President Coin – arrives, with a slew of her own guards, to give a few choice words. I don't hear them; it's all static in my ears now. My fingers tap nervously on my thighs – one, two, three, three, three…Verity clasps my hand tighter, forcing me to not let go of reality. I see Grandfather led on stage, near the new President, and I see the Girl Who Was on Fire join us. Emotions clash as I see her – relief, jealousy, hatred, curiosity.

She has her bow with her, the one we saw in the videos when the rebels took over the television. Tears have begun to slide down my face, but I choke back the sobs. She's aiming the weapon at Grandfather but the shot isn't as instantaneous as I thought it would be. Something is click, click, clicking through her mind, but no one seems to be noticing. Maybe you don't notice it until you can hear it yourself. Coin just stands there, looking grim and uncaring, while Grandfather kneels and grins, maniacally.

And then chaos happens.

Coin is dead, falling over the railing. Grandfather is laughing, sputtering, choking. Guards are rushing towards Coin, towards the Mockingjay, towards surprised looking officials that had graced the stage near Coin. The crowd has grown loud in shock, outrage – they've begun to run, some towards the stage, some towards exits. No one knows what is happening.

The Mockingjay is fighting with the guards, screaming, trying to tear from them as blood begins to run down her skin, into her clothes. Verity is up, trying to pull me with her, but I'm confused, scared. One of our guards seems to find his wits and pushes me up, then jabs me sharply in the back to start walking. The other guard joins in and they begin to rush us through the crowd. By the time we are inside, one of them has a bruising grasp on my arm, worried, I assume, that I would slip away in the crowd.

They take us another corridor than the one used to slip the Mockingjay away, but ours is still crowded and full of confused people running to get outside to help. We push past people, the guards knocking some into the hard walls, desperate to get us somewhere else. I blindly reach out for Verity's hand as we half walk, half run down the corridors. When we make it to my room, the door is tugged open, and I'm pushed inside. I'm pulling Verity in with me – I don't want to be alone in this confusion - but they yank her away and slam the door. I feel the tears and sobs coming again, and I keep trying to door handle even as I hear the multitude of locks being fastened shut from the outside.

Finally, I feel tired to my core, even though I'm sure it's only mid-afternoon, and I sink to the floor in a heap, falling almost immediately asleep.


End file.
